A Room of One's Own (or An Ode to My Desk)

Virginia Woolf was spot on when she wrote that every female writer needs a room of her own.
If you haven't read her piece by that name, then you really should. Immediately. Here.

For my own part, I've never quite felt settled in any place until I have acquired a desk of my own. A sacred space carved out for the pure purpose of writing and responding to life. 

Husband and I decided early on to turn the extra room upstairs into an office of sorts. We covered the original kelly green walls will a calmer cream colour, and hung shelves for holding books and boxes of letter-writing supplies. My easel and stool have their place in the corner by the bright window, and side-by-side, he and I placed our desks against the wall. His "desk" is a rough wooden table, salvaged and beautiful in its own way, perfect to suit his practical needs. But my vintage desk is a gem of a craigslist find. An old 1950's piece, solid wood with sturdy side drawers and a smooth compartment for a typewriter. There are holes and marks where the typewriter was once screwed in to the desk and I find the worn lines on the wood fascinating. 

We spent much of Sunday afternoon in this room.
I placed fragrant peonies in a corner to keep the room smelling sweet and he chose the music to play while we dabbled in our own forms of creativity. (The soundtrack: a lot of Pheonix, Monsters and Men, and The Lumineers). It makes me feel a little more grounded, this desk. 
And it may be the most favourite piece of furniture we now own. 


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